Forge
by Norick Madcaskae
Summary: One line and you're out of control.


You won't understand. You never really will. But then, sometimes the point isn't whether or not you understand. Understanding isn't everything you know. Some people do things without any clue of what they're really doing. They don't understand it. They simply do it.

In this case, I want you to picture in a way that you would understand.

See, I've never been much for thought or planning. I've always been more of a get-up and go, type person. But it's hard to say why, in the end because there's no understanding of what I do, why I do it. So, although I'm not a thinker, I constantly question motives and wonder why.

Why, ofcourse, is the always popular, universal question. There's nothing you can't ask "why" to. It's just something that everyone is inherently born knowing how to do. When you're a kid and you ask "why" constantly for attention or enjoyment out of seeing someone get annoyed. Or when you grow older and you realize how absolutely dull and silly life truly is.

Now, deep down you think you understand.

You believe that you have the thoughts all worked out in a perfect order. You've arranged everything in your mental filing cabinet and it's all a great source of proverbial knowledge for you to whip out in times of need. But I already told you. You _won't_ understand. You simply can't understand.

If only because it's simply not that obvious, you won't.

I gently grasp the hilt of a sword and swing it, bar left. Above my head it rises, in the ways of old, like samurai.

Now you think you know. You've seen the light. But you haven't.

Questions run constantly and to truly understand, you can't come to any conclusions. Doing so is wrong and only proves how little you understand.

Quick reflexes are needed to fight this foe. Even quicker than normal to get past the all but miles of circuitry and embedded cogs and sprockets to penetrate into flesh. And it's constant movements make standing still nearly impossible. Alas, I'm not a great hero, and therefore lack the ability to move with a grace that people enjoy. No…I was born, defective, you might say.

But then, _you_ wouldn't say anything, would you? You'd be wrong. Because you wouldn't understand. You simply wouldn't understand. You couldn't.

You might think you have me pegged. You know who I am, what I'm doing, why I'm doing it. But in truth, you only know what I've told you, and all I've told you is that you're wrong.

What truly defines understanding, at the very least in this case, is knowledge. Something neither of us shares, and you know it. That, maybe you understand.

Laser-fire, gun shots. All around me.

Heart racing, fleeting. Grace and sincerity have completely left my face, my feet, my hands. I've no interest in making clean cuts or running in straight and beautiful lines. My only chance is to not be understood, and that's survival.

Ah; a big clue there. Survival. A word that defines life as we know it. What is life? Survival of the fittest some would say. Though they don't always apply said knowledge to exceptions - broken rules, if you will.

Because of this, there's nothing more exhilarating than life itself. Survival is the one and only thing that can cause us to sweat, raise our adrenaline, turn us on, heighten our senses, and yet cause us to think in ways we never would. When faced with dire situations, one will go through bestial changes that they would never even acknowledge in daily life.

Swing and a miss, however, because you still don't know enough to get it.

I cut, bar right now. I slice an arm, but I'm sloppy. I have to be. Unfortunately, all it does is make noise and bounce off. My heart feels as if it's ready to burst, and the blood rising to my head causes me to want to go faster. There's nothing left of my being that would want anything more than to be free, but where I stand, where I lie all I can think of is what will happen if I fail.

Can't fail. Can't really win, either. But then, it'll work its own ways out. It always does.

I jump up onto the nearest one and land on the head. I lift my sword and thrust it down, down as far as it can go. I feel it penetrate metal and flesh as if it were my own reproductive limb, carving a place for itself in the soft bedding of a woman.

One glance at a camera and I know you're looking. You're watching, and I can tell you now, that you will never understand why I'm doing this. Why I would even think of doing this. Why you are even pondering this nonsensical behavior. It's all something I'm very accustomed to, and it's all how I've lived my life for the past several years.

All said and done with vengeance, hatred, and death in mind. I've no intentions of coming out alive. I simply plan to show you what you don't know, and what you will probably never figure out before we're finished here.

I lunge, weightlessly almost, towards the next. Laser-fire, gun shots all around me. One slice, two slice; more and more and more! I feel a crude mixture of blood and oil seep into my eyes and nose, and I hear a deafening scream emanate from inside. The taste is that of pure iron and copper mixed with the almost putrid stench of motor-oil. A texture I won't soon forget.

A texture no one will soon forget.

Now you've watched for some time now. Not long, maybe. But it's not taken long to do what I do. You know it never has. But then does it make me better or worse if I enjoy it or hate it? Somehow, I can't imagine it would change either way. I suppose it simply depends on what side I'm on.

Ah-ha, you might, say. I've discovered a big clue! You think you grasp some sense of everything, but you haven't. What you especially haven't grasped is sense, or understanding, for that matter. The one thing we're all learning about; right here, right now.

There's no better way to tell you this than the way it's being done. Unfortunately, it's getting harder and harder to explain. It's getting harder and harder to keep still.

More and more come, each one supposedly of equal strength and mass, making each one a challenge, making each one an individual problem. Pretty soon, you'd think there were hundreds, when in fact, there're only about twenty-seven. Not a good number. If I plan my strikes well enough, I can manage to do more damage in half the amount of time.

One leap, step, step, step. Using the heads like stones, a pathway is found, and I jump down between a group of them. They all turn to circle me only to find that I'm gone and their lasers are facing only each other. One strike, three go down. Two strike, three more go down. With each passing step and strike I hack another group down to size. By now the blood flows like rivers away from us, the oil tainting the crimson seep into black-stricken, virus ridden, mucus.

What comes now is more laser-fire. Only this time, far more concentrated. You're not taking any more chances. You can't. One hit is all it takes to take out a fleshy being like me. But you still don't understand, and that is why you can't hit me.

All this time, you've watched. All this time you've thought. But you still haven't really gotten an understanding. Especially one that would help you in such a predicament. Amongst your brave, your dumb, your smart, your flawed, all you can do is sit and stare in awe as I make my slashes and marks. As I taint your wonderful hide with a little red, red blood.

One hit is all it takes. Yet you can't even understand that.

I jump, I dodge, I leap, I spin, and all the while I make myself a fool for doing it. There's no grace, no planning. Each attempt at a dodge is done on the spot, without cue, and without direction. Twice now, it seems, that you're greatest fears have almost been subsided, but each miss, and each fallen militant, you still realize said fears more and more.

Now you're thinking. Now you feel your heart rushing. You can hear it almost. The feint thudding as it beats against bone and fleshy organs. It's a feeling of rush, a feeling hatred. You don't know what to expect and it's driving you mad with anticipation. You almost want me to win, despite that I'm not your friend.

Just to heed curiosity's ever-painful grip on you.

You may be wondering now, why I do what I do, why I've done what I've done, perhaps. The truth is, you know. But you don't understand. That's what you need. Understanding. But you can't seem to understand _that_.

One stray gun hits me. A shot to my leg that should cripple me. It's a burning sensation, one that can only be rivaled by a hot, burning stick shoved into your eyes.

Two swings, and down my opponents go. My sword slices deeper into their flesh, and the screams I hear are now echoing into the surrounding area. The rain has picked up and it isn't pleasant. But it helps at least keep the burn cooled.

Three bounds and a leap into the air. I attach myself to another of your minions and stab through its head. I watch blood, oil and brains pour out onto my shirt, and then I fall back, caught under its immense weight. I grab my sword and a lone gun, and begin firing, screaming. Through my words, you can hear the deafening roars of a cornered jackal, a dying lion, a defensive fox.

I've painted you the picture, and you have to figure it out.

I'll blast my way through, cut my legs off and go home for medical attention. With your technology, I'll be redone. I'll be rebuilt, and made faster.

A foray you don't like the sound of. It means I'll try again. It means I'll just keep going.

"Why won't you just die?" you want to scream; agony, defeat, anger all swelling up inside of you. But I can't die. Not now, not yet. I've got too many questions to answer and too many questions to ask. And anyway, you still haven't understood. Or have you finally wrapped your mind around it, yet?

Try as you might, there's nothing you can do to stop me, or save yourself from others like me. We'll constantly question and make you understand. But if you never understand, than it won't matter. You'll never understand. You'll be haunted for life by what it is I'm even talking about because you simply won't get it. You'll say, "He's pretentious!" You'll say, "He's lying!" You'll find any plausible reason you can come up with to enlighten me to your ways, to make _me_ understand. But I think that through all of this, the one thing you still have to learn, the thing that I just learned now, talking to you.

Because of who you are and what you want out of it, you'll never understand. But I'll lay it out for you. Easy, simple, and ready to be ingested so that you can kill me in peace. Now that I understand, there's no need to do things the right way or the wrong way.

One look shows you know. I see your slaves stop. I see them lower guns. And deep down your heart has stopped. Your breath is in, and held. Your eyes are fixed.

Forever you'll wait like this.

Forever you'll hold your breath.

Fix your gaze.

Live though your heart has since stopped.

And you will never understand why.

**bang  
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When they erect my grave, it'll say, "Rest in Peace: Antoine D'Coolete." The funeral will be a wonderful thing, a joyous praise in my name. For what I did, for the fight I fought. For the simple fact that, in the end, though I took my own life, I understood all reasons for doing so.

But you…

You'll sit there. Fixated on the darkness forever.

"No! No! Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it! Damn you, you useless, worthless, coyote!" you'll scream.

And yet, you'll never understand why.

**-------------------------------------------------------------  
**_Antoine is Copyright SEGA/Archie Comics _

Story written and copyright Gogehenks/Norick Madcaskae  
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**_I know that deep down you think you can get a true grasp of everything that you read.  
But then, if you did, nothing would be worth reading. You've read the books, all at least once, in some form or fashion. You would know all that would be needed. But because you, like all things on this planet, cannot do such a thing, you are just as worthless and useless as the very books you read. _**

Learn the art form and learn why you're here.


End file.
